cordis
by the insane have strength
Summary: "There is a wisdom of the head, & a wisdom of the heart." - Charles Dickens. Tired of being a hero & rejected by the Girl he has always loved, a certain ex-Gryffindor begins a new life in France. Neville/OC. Post-DH. Rated T for coarse language, tobacco & alcohol usage, slight sexuality, mature themes, & Neville's incredible and well-earned sexiness.
1. confutatio

**Title:** cordis

**Summary: **"There is a wisdom of the head, and a wisdom of the heart." - Charles Dickens. Tired of being a hero and rejected by the Girl he has always loved, a certain ex-Gryffindor begins a new life in France.

**Rating:** T for coarse language, violence, alcohol usage, slight sexuality, mature themes, and Neville's incredible and well-earned sexiness.

**Author:** Ebony (This Ebony Bird).

**Beta:** Kathleen (kathleenfergie).

**Characters:** Neville Longbottom, multiple OCs, Luna Lovegood, Harry Potter, Augusta Longbottom, Frank Longbottom, Alice Longbottom, Ginevra Weasley, Hermione Granger, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Romilda Vane, Hannah Abbott, Draco Malfoy, Teddy Lupin.

**Pairings: **Neville Longbottom/OC centric. Includes Harry Potter/Ginevra Weasley, Frank Longbottom/Alice Longbottom, OC/OC, Theodore Nott/OC, Ronald Weasley/Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass, Rolf Scamander/Luna Lovegood. Mentions of OC/OC, Theodore Nott/OC, Draco Malfoy/OC, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Xenophilius Lovegood/Mrs. Lovegood.

**World:** Post-DH.

**Setting:** 1998-1999. Mostly France, some situations in England and Ireland.

**Genres:** Romance, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family, Tragedy, Adventure.

**Status:** In Progress.

**Disclaimer: **I'm going to say this once and once only. Canon material is owned by Joanne K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing (UK), Arthur A. Levine Books (US), and Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc. This would not be FanFiction if I owned the Harry Potter franchise, so don't expect me to act like I do. Unless stated as otherwise, all original characters and plotlines are fictional. If there is any similarity to situations in other stories or real-life circumstances that you may recognize, it is purely coincidental. I tend to plagiarize my own ideas, so if you are familiar any of my other stories you may see parallels and crossovers with subjects matter such as languages, circumstances, et cetera. _All pre-story lyrics are credit to The Fray because they are beautiful and I love them._


	2. part i: cicatricum refertam

i: cicatricum refertam

* * *

_"I want to return but all you will do is turn to leave."_

* * *

-France: September 1998-

* * *

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Six.

It had been six days since he had left the only fancy restaurant in Diagon Alley with his open rucksack slung hurriedly over his shoulder, face burning with embarrassment. It had been six days since he had Apparated to Seamus' flat in Dublin – since he couldn't go back to his own; it reminded him too much of Her – dripping with the pouring rain from outside and begging for a place to sleep, just for a night or two.

Five.

It had been five days since he had gotten the owl from Her saying that if it was really that important to him, then She would marry him after all. It had been five days since he had gone back to Rook House after an evening of drinking, staggering drunkenly up the front steps and thundering a fist on the door in a rude knock. It had been five days since he had yelled at Her, broken by all the weight of being a hero and Her rejection and corrupted by alcohol. It had been five days since Xenophilius had thrown him out of the House, claiming that he was a threat to Her. It had been five days since Harry had Flooed over to Seamus' to visit, suggesting a good therapist. It had been five days since Seamus had asked him what was wrong and what the hell did he do at Rook House, and he had not answered.

Four.

It had been four days since he had last been in England, only returning to resign from his position as an Auror intern. It had been four days since he had told his landlord that he was moving out of his flat above what used to be Florean Fortescue's. It had been four days since he had gone to Gringotts and taken out every single last Knut he had in his vault. It had been four days since he had gone to the local Owl Office and sent an owl to his grandmother, saying that he would be gone for a while. It had been four days since he had shown up at St. Mungo's to say goodbye to his parents. It had been four days since he had gathered up all his belongings and hopped aboard a Muggle ferry from Southampton to Cherbourg.

Three.

It had been three days since he had arrived in Cherbourg. It had been three days since he had first stumbled around in a sea of foreign language that he barely understood before finally finding a little inn similar to the Leaky Cauldron, with a mostly bilingual barista who had been all too happy – she recognized his face from the newspaper – to explain to her manager that he needed a place to stay. It had been three days since he had paid them, and requested that he exchange most of his Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts for whatever the hell French Muggle currency was called.

Two.

It had been two days since he had thanked the staff at the inn and left. It had been two days since he had forked over a handful of money to the metro station railway operator and mumbled something to her that resembled asking for one train ticket to Paris, please.

One.

It had been one day since he had arrived in Paris. It had been one day since he had sat down at a little café and bought some kind of elaborate pastry and the only kind of tea that they had. It had been one day since he had rented a room in a seedy motel with a creaky bed, flickering lamp, holes in the curtains, a cracked window, and water damage stains on the walls and ceiling. It had been one day since Neville Longbottom's second life had started.

He stepped outside of the motel room, wincing as bright light flashed in his eyes. He brought his hands up to shield his face from the flashes of the paparazzi cameras, turning to duck back inside his room and try to figure out how they found him. He paused as he realized that he didn't hear clicks of camera shutters, or reporters bombarding him with the same questions they had been asking him for months and that he had been ignoring for just as long. He turned back around, still using one hand as a visor for protection from the brightness, and frowned. The brilliant light was only the radiant late-morning sun, and the asphalt parking lot was empty, save for a couple cars. He was alone, free from all the responsibility of being a war hero and free from the shame of being rejected by the Girl he had always loved, ever since he had met Her back in his fifth year and Her fourth. Had it really only been three years ago? It seemed like he had known Her forever.

When he really thought about it, it had really only been three years ago that they had met. Today, in fact, She would be returning to Hogwarts (after a long summer of helping to rebuild the war-torn castle and grounds) to complete Her education. That was one of the reasons why She wouldn't marry him.

* * *

_He stared at Her, frozen confusedly on one knee, ring box still clenched in his hands. "What?" He choked out, searching for a sign in Her blueblueblue eyes that She didn't mean it. She only tucked stray hair back behind Her ears and sighed seriously, looking into his green eyes with Hers that were still so blueblueblue and letting Her usual soft smile slip off of Her face._

_"I won't marry you, Neville." She murmured quietly, clearly. He felt his heart sink lower than he thought possible. A part of him still refused to believe that what She said was true._

_"Luna," he whispered. The fancy restaurant he had taken Her out to was deadly quiet; nobody moved a muscle as they witnessed his rejection._

_"Sit back up," She replied gently. _

_"Why," he began, stopping as he realized that he wasn't completely sure that he wanted to know why She was rejecting him. Slowly, he set the ring on the table and sat back down in his chair, suddenly having no taste for the elegant glass of delicious elven wine that sat before him on the table. He blinked back stinging tears, opening his mouth to speak. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to force the words out. "Why won't you... why won't you marry me?" The words scraped his throat as they came out, each syllable joined with a throbbing, raw pain._

_"Because, Neville..." He had never seen Her look so uncomfortable. "Because I'm too young to be married now. I... I start back at Hogwarts in a week; I want to finish classes and move to New Zealand to study with the Scamander Expeditions, I-"_

_"You can do all that!" He blurted out louder than he should have, once again gaining the attention of the other patrons. He immediately looked down at his hands and cleared his throat. "I mean, we don't have to get married now, Lu, I... it was just sort of a promise, like someday we'll get married, when we're ready." He returned his gaze to blueblueblue, hoping that this had cleared things up for Her. Maybe She had just misunderstood him; maybe now She would say yes._

_She shook Her head and that Merlin-be-damned piece of dishwater-blonde hair fell back into Her eyes. "No, Neville," Her blueblueblue eyes were sad as She stared back at him. "I can't ever marry you."_

_"Wh... why, Lu-Luna, why... w-wh... I don't... I-I-I, I don't... why, can-can't you... why, why won't... won't you m-marry... wh-why..?" He floundered in a sea of words that he couldn't ever – wouldn't ever – say, desperately trying to stay afloat and say something comprehensible. She only looked at him sadly with a gaze that was all blueblueblue._

_"Neville, I..." She sighed. "I don't love you the way that you need me to love you. I haven't ever... I can't ever." She clasped Her pale, delicate hands in front of Her on the deep blue tablecloth._

_"Oh," he breathed, patiently letting the silence that followed twist the knife that Her words had embedded in his chest. "I... oh." He frowned, blinking madly again and standing up, throwing money down next to his empty plate. She looked up at him with an expression of pity, which only inspired a sort of dull throb in his ribs. She made him feel guilty for asking Her to marry him. He should have thought more about how She felt; he should have realistically evaluated their relationship before purchasing that stupid ring and getting down on that cursed knee of his. "Sorry," he mumbled, quickly pushing his chair in and swiftly, clumsily, leaving the restaurant with a brilliant red face._

_He took the ring with him._

_He left his heart back at the table with Her._

* * *

He shook his head, forcing the flashback out of his mind. He didn't want to think about Her, not here, not now. He had come to France to get away from Her, to lose himself in the beautiful culture and the words he didn't understand and simply forget about Her. There was no point in holding onto the memories of Her that he had. She didn't want him; She would never want him and he had to accept it. He had to forget. He had to move on. She had probably moved on by now. It would be easy for Her; She had never given him Her heart and soul. She still had every bit of Her intact. He hadn't broken Her own delicate heart, no-siree. She was still living in Her beautiful, fantastical world that he would never be a part of. She still had Her whole life ahead of Her.

And what did he have? A grungy motel room, a rucksack, a new leather wallet full of euros (his usual mokeskin pouch was drawing too much attention), and a wand that he couldn't use. He hadn't a clue how to talk to any of these bloody French people, how to communicate with them and tell them that he didn't know how to speak French and it would be lovely if they knew anyone who spoke English and if so could they get him in touch, please. He couldn't use magic to understand what any of them were saying; the Muggles would recognize his magical signature, and those that knew he was a wizard would have known how vital a role he had played in the Second Great Battle of Hogwarts. Then he would be found by the press (most likely that complete gorgon Rita Skeeter and her Quick Quotes Quill) and hounded about how he had felt after She had denied his request for Her hand in marriage and how it was interesting how he was a Gryffindor in school but now was acting exactly the opposite in running away.

As he turned to go back into his room he wondered whether it really mattered to him whether he was thought of as a coward or not. He supposed that people, especially his peers, had always regarded him as a complete and utter wimp. It wasn't until his seventh year that people really started to take him seriously. Would he miss that? Of course. Of course he would miss being treated like an equal, or an idol, or someone that people could look up to. But that was Harry's job. That had always been Harry's job. Harry was the Chosen One. Harry was the one with the perfect, loyal friends and the lightning scar; he was practically made up of courage, for Merlin's sake! He could never amount to Harry, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't compete with somebody that extraordinary.

He chuckled quietly to himself as he immersed himself back into the darkness of the room, fiddling with the doorknob so that he could persuade the lock to close all the way. He remembered Harry coming up to him after the Battle was over, saying that he needed to talk to him. Harry and Hermione had explained the Prophecy to him, and he remembered throwing up almost immediately after they broke the news that it could have just as easily been him that was in Harry's shoes. He remembered the words explained to him in the Pensieve memory. He remembered Trelawney's voice coming out of the glowing white orb: the Prophecy.

* * *

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."_

* * *

It killed him to think that Voldemort could have killed his parents instead of Lily and James Potter, that it would have been his destiny to duel with the Dark Lord, to hunt for Horcruxes. Would he have been alone? Would he have had friends that stood beside him, like Ron and Hermione had flanked Harry on his quest to defeat Lord Voldemort? Or would he have walked that perilous journey on his own? Would he have been famous in school? Would the papers constantly be badgering him, asking what Neville Longbottom was up to next? Would he have been the youngest Seeker in a century? Would he have pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of the Sorting Hat back in second year? Would he have defeated the Basilisk and conquered the memory of Tom Riddle? Would he have been the youngest person in ages to produce a corporeal Patronus before the age of seventeen? Would he have had his name mysteriously drawn out of the Goblet of Fire and then been forced to compete in the Triwizard Tournament? Would he have started the DA, and taught his schoolmates defensive magic? Would he have initiated the Ministry break-in? Would he have had private sessions with Dumbledore? Would he have found the diary of the Half-Blood Prince? Would he have gone with Dumbledore to the cave? Would he have witnessed Dumbledore's death? Would he have gone on that horrible search for Horcruxes? Would he have been taken to Malfoy Manor and tortured?

And what would have happened to Harry?

Confused with all these thoughts of the unknown, he moved towards the shower (suspiciously, the only subject of decent quality in the entire room), stripping his shirt off. He looked at himself in the filthy mirror, eying the scars that assembled like constellations on his torso. These were all he had left of the Battle: scars and his memories. Scars and stories.

He shed the rest of his clothes off and turned the water on, wincing as the freezing water splashed against his bare, warm skin. He stood there for what felt like years and let the pressure of the water beat down on him like a hundred liquid sparks, each one leaving a distinct impression of touch on his skin. To anyone who walked in, it would simply look like he was taking a shower, but to him, it was like he was cleaning himself of all the trouble he had experienced. He was trading peer pressure for water pressure in the most basic way possible. This was the only kind of pressure that he needed from now on. This was the only time that he would ever feel naked. He wouldn't feel exposed when he read newspaper articles about his own life, feeling like he was reading about somebody else's life. This was the only kind of nakedness that he would embrace.

He smiled as he ran his hands through his dark, soaking hair. He was naked, scarred, and alone. And for once in his life, he was truly, truly happy.


	3. part ii: cervisia

ii: cervisia

* * *

___"Everything is black and white and grey."_

* * *

-France: September 1998-

* * *

He rolled over on the bed, relishing the feel of the blanket – in actuality it was a soft sweater that he had Transfigured into a bed cover to make his motel room feel more like a good place to sleep; he still had some of his grandmother's words stuck in his brain that involved proper hospitality – against his calloused and one-wounded skin. He had spent most of the day in bed; it was seven o'clock now – six o'clock back in his familiar United Kingdom – and he hadn't done a single important thing all day. If he was being quite honest, he would say that this was one of the best days he had had over the last couple months. It was one of the first days where nobody had questioned anything that he did, where he could simply be ignored with the act of placing a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob of his room. Nobody was judging what he was doing, or lack of it. Nobody had spoken to him; nobody had asked him how he felt about Harry and Ron being promoted straight to being full Aurors without having to do much of the training or what he thought of the new Minister for Magic or if he supported the new Hogwarts Headmistress – of course he did; it was McGonagall for crying out loud – or if they could have his autograph, please.

Here, in this little corner of France, he was a nobody. He wasn't Neville Longbottom. He wasn't the son of those two great Aurors and Order members who had been so tragically and permanently injured by Death Eaters. He wasn't the young man who had stood up to the Carrows every single day of his seventh year. He wasn't the hero who had led students to a sanctuary and taught them how to fight for their lives against evil. He wasn't the brave man that had pulled the Sword out of the Hat. He wasn't the Gryffindor lion that had slayed the serpent. He wasn't the baby who could have so easily been The Boy Who Lived. He wasn't even the boy who was afraid of Snape, or the boy who had lost his toad on the first day of school, or the clumsy boy with too-big ears and too-big teeth who was the dictionary definition of everything that Draco Malfoy and his cronies liked to make fun of. He wasn't anybody. He was simply a man running away from his past. He was simply nobody in particular.

His stomach growled, and he frowned at it. When had he eaten last? He concluded that it had been yesterday, and, still slightly frowning, sat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, getting rid of the bedhead he had accidentally acquired. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes and blinked, focusing his vision on the rucksack on the chair opposite the bed. He leaned over and grabbed it, reaching his arm in up to his shoulder, digging around until he finally found a shirt. His brow furrowed again as he brought the fabric to his nose, sniffing it and analyzing whether it was clean enough to wear again. It was.

He pulled the shirt over his head, covering his map of scars, and stood up, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in his blue jeans – to no avail. He sighed, putting on his second-hand black duster coat – it had been his late great-uncle's – which was probably too warm for outside, but this might be something he would wear in this new life. Maybe his reinvention of himself would be tougher than he had been all of his life. Maybe this new character would be the person that he had always wanted to be, but was too scared to be. Maybe he could finally turn himself into a snake and shed his skin.

He smiled at his reflection in the small mirror that hung crookedly on the wall, and flicked his wand towards the rucksack, shrinking it so that it fit neatly in the inner breast pocket of his duster. He sat back down to pull on his shoes – old, worn jump boots that he had found at a second-hand store in Wales when he was doing interviews there with the Trio – and lace them up to the top. He adjusted the way the jacket sat on his shoulders and checked his reflection once more before stowing his wand in its sleeve holster and swiftly exiting his room, taking care to lock the door behind him.

The wind teased up the hem of his long jacket in a playful dance, spiraling up his body to tousle his dark hair. He closed the eyes, reveling in the feeling. This was the answer he had been looking for. This simple, simple gesture by nature had answered his most corrosive questions with a solitary whisper of the wind on his skin.

Smiling broadly, he looked up at the darkening sky, staring over the horizon and being able to make out the image of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. He inhaled the smell of his new life, choking on the pungent odour of vehicle exhaust that filled the air.

* * *

The café he had discovered the other day was closed. Discouraged, he walked away, wondering where the hell he was going to be able to find something to eat. A family, touristy in appearance, with matching backpacks, baseball caps, and binoculars stood out blatantly from among the very, well, French-looking France scenery. Shy as always but still trying to mask it, he walked up to them, hands in his coat pockets. This was a mistake. The mother looked at him with wild, terrified eyes, while the father nobly stepped in front of his children. "Do you speak English?" He asked the family. The father only glared at him and motioned for the kids to stand with their wizard frowned. "I'm guessing that's a no, then," he mumbled, taking a step towards them without thinking about it. Another mistake. The father stepped closer and started yelling at him in a language with too many harsh consonants that his English-trained ears abhorred. "No, no, I just wanted to know if-" he stepped backwards as the father made a fist at his side. "Sorry, I just was wondering if you knew where there was a good restaurant or something." the father seemed to take his little speech to offense, and swung his fist in the dark haired man's direction. The Gryffindor ducked, instinctively reaching for his wand before remembering where he was and what he could not do.

"_Arrêtez_!" A feminine voice broke the aggressive tension between them. Both competitors turned to see where the voice was coming from. A blonde woman was running towards them, waving her hands in the air. She stopped when she reached them, and looked at Neville with blue-green eyes. "_Parlez-vous français_?" She asked. He blinked, blushing madly, unsure as to what she was asking him. He didn't want to offend another person in the span of two minutes. "Do you speak English?" She asked in a very England-English voice. He widened his eyes, nodding.

"Yeah," he replied. She smiled.

"Good, I'm glad that's settled." She turned to the family, putting a hand on the father's shoulder. "_Français_?" She asked him. He shrugged and replied with a couple French words, heavily bordered with his weird accent. She smiled and nodded. "_Deutsch, ja_?" The father grinned broadly and nodded. The blonde began to speak rapidly in whatever language the man spoke, and the wizard watched, feeling like an outsider as usual, as they conversed. The man turned to him after a minute and clapped a hand onto his shoulder, saying something that sounded all too much he was swearing at him.

"Sor-ry,_ ja_?" the father finally said in broken English. The wizard nodded and smiled, unsure how to reply.

"It's alright, mate." He replied uncertainly, eyes flickering to the pretty blonde. The family, satisfied, turned to leave. "Thanks," he stuck a hand out to shake hers. "Thanks for that."

"It's alright," the blonde shrugged his gratitude off as if this was something that she did all the time. He blinked confusedly, reminding himself that his face was probably still a lovely shade of Gryffindor red.

"So..." He let out an awkward, nervous chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The woman smiled at him reassuringly.

"You're not from here," she commented. He almost snorted.

"Neither are you." She shrugged.

"Yeah, but at least I can-" here she broke off into rapid French, and he was lost in translation once again. He opened his mouth, hoping that some sort of clever retort would fall out. The blonde let out a light laugh. "You said something about finding a place to eat, if I heard correctly?" Her familiar, enunciated English accent was welcome amidst all the rough, seductive French vocals. He nodded. "There's a pub, well, more of a bar I suppose, across from where I work, and the food there's really good. The service is decent, and it's a quiet place so I don't suppose anyone will give you any trouble." She offered. "Michel's, it's called." She grabbed his hand, pulling a pen out of her purse and scribbling an address and quick directions down upon his kin. He frowned slightly. This was a sort of mannerism that reminded him of Her. He cleared his throat.

"Thanks, er..." He frowned, not knowing her name and knowing that he would never be able to remember it, but still making an effort to be courteous.

"Katherine. It's Katherine." She replied with a smile, extending a hand to shake. He took her up on this polite and noninvasive gesture, even going so far as to manage a small smile. He opted not to give her his name, still wanting to be as little-known in this new place as possible until he could figure out who he was. Her eyes suddenly lit up, another thing that She would do, and she grabbed his hand, scribbling something else on it. "When you get to Michel's, ask for Gaspar. He speaks English well enough." She frowned, glancing at the delicate wristwatch that graced her just-as-delicate wrist. "I better go," she looked up at him, and he watched as the corners of her mouth turned up in a small grin. "Cheers!" She moved to walk past him. His eyebrows knitted together for a moment.

"Wait!" He called after her, turning to stop her from walking away. She turned back. "Could you... could you give me the time?" He asked gently. Her hand moved to the opposite wrist, where the wristwatch lay.

"Catch," she replied clearly, tossing something to him. He caught it, surprising himself, and watched as she waved and walked away. He glared after her. How rude was it that she simply just walked away without even answering his question! She probably gave him the wrong directions to that stupid bar as well. Huffing, he looked down at the object in his hands and immediately felt guilty. A petite silver watch face smiled up at him in the same fashion that the blonde woman had, and he ran a calloused finger across the soft white leather band and silver buckle.

This was just about the nicest thing that anyone had ever done for him.

* * *

The bar – Michel's – that the blonde woman – he had proven himself right; he couldn't remember her name – had suggested was open, thankfully, and he moseyed through the door, his green eyes wandering around the tables looking for a place to sit. There were numerous empty bar stools; he figured that this was an unpopular joint, and was all the more thankful that he had taken up the Englishwoman's suggestion.

He cleared his throat quietly, avoiding the gaze of the few customers in the bar. He walked what he hoped appeared to be be confidently up to the bar, and cleared his throat loudly this time, drawing the attention of the bored-looking barista. "I'm looking for... Gaspar? There was a... a woman who said that, er, he spoke English?" He asked hopefully, praying that the young woman across the counter understood enough English to direct him to whoever this Gaspard character was. The redheaded barista raised an eyebrow.

"Gaspar?" She repeated back to him. He nodded. She smacked painted-fuchsia lips in an exasperated fashion and rolled light brown eyes before mumbling something that he wouldn't have been able to understand even if it was in English and pointing to a chalkboard easel on the counter that depicted drawings of the food selections that the bar/pub offered. The wizard studied the makeshift menu and watched as the Muggle woman turned around and walked into a back room. She re-entered a few moments with a sandy-haired gentleman, muttering to him in fast French that the wizard's untrained ears couldn't even begin to grasp. The gentleman turned to him, a broad, friendly grin plastered all over his face, and shooed the young woman away.

"Gaspar," he introduced himself, still with that honest grin stretched all over his face like a canvas on a frame. The Englishman nodded and offered a small smile.

"Neville," he cleared his throat for what had to have been the millionth time since he stepped into the bar. "You speak English, yeah?" Gaspar grinned, one hand idly moving up to run through his short hair.

"_Oui._" He winked. "I mean, yes." The joke was lame but both parties laughed tensely anyways, both eager to have the ice between them broken. "So, what can I get for you?" Gaspar asked, his voice mostly free of the husky French accent that the non-French man had been trying to tune his ears to, and now tinged with an accent that the anglophone couldn't place. The wizard blinked, looking back at the menu again.

"Er... whatever's good." He replied. Gaspar chuckled.

"Alright, _monsieur._" The sandy-haired man mock-saluted before whisking away into the back.

The dark-haired pulled out a vacant bar stool and perched on it, leaning his elbows on the counter and running hands through his hair. He looked up, quickly looking down as he noticed the barista making eyes at him. He felt his face heat up in another embarrassing blush, and focused on a spot on the shiny counter. _'Don't turn red don't turn red don't turn red don't turn red'_ repeated over and over in his brain; he was drilling it in in a vain attempt to force the rosiness out of his cheeks. His plan failed, and the only thing he could do was sit and wait it out. He sneaked a glance back at the young woman, internally frowning when he saw that she was still staring at him. Her eyes screamed 'notice-me' and seduction, but her face... there was something entirely wrong with her face. She looked angry-sexy, which sort of scared him rather than turned him on. Not only that, but her nose was permanently scrunched up, as if she had just smelled something foul. She looked away, and he took this moment to stare at her, to study her. That expression of disgust... was that just her face? Or did she actually smell something disgusting? He sniffed subtly, his curiosity taking over. He couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary; just the faint smell of cigarette smoke that would linger on leather jackets and faint aromas of whatever Gaspar was preparing back in the kitchen. He furrowed his brow slightly and looked away from the barista, contemplating this new information thoroughly.

Just as the double doors to the kitchen swung open, he had come to the conclusion that the expression was, indeed, just how her face looked. Gaspar placed an open-face chicken sandwich in front of him, explaining something that sounded like 'tar-teen' but that the Englishman honestly didn't comprehend. He nodded and offered a smile like he knew exactly what the Frenchman was talking about, hoping that he had fooled him. It appeared that he had, and he waited for Gaspar to turn around to talk to the redheaded woman, who had quickly dropped her intrigue with the wizard when Gaspar had returned.

As the dark-haired man at in silence, he was painfully aware of everything that was happening around him. Gaspar and the barista were conversing idly in French a few metres away; a particularly sad looking man along the bar was nursing a glass of what looked like Firewhiskey; a group of burly, bearded men were talking secretively at a booth on the other side of the bar, and there were two giggling young women – the numerous empty glasses led the wizard to believe that they had had a few too many to drink – at another booth, both of whom kept flashing glances an an oblivious Gaspar. The wizard finished his meal, which drew the attention of the English-speaking Frenchman.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" He asked politely, taking the empty plate away. The wizard nodded.

"Could I get a Butterbeer, please?" He asked. Only when Gaspar's eyebrows knitted together in confusion did he realize what he had said. He wracked his brain trying to find the words to cover up the words that he hadn't exactly meant to say, feeling incredibly stupid for not realizing sooner that Muggles had no idea what Butterbeer was.

"Sorry, _monsieur_, we don't carry Butter's beer. Is another kind alright?" The sand-haired asked. The dark-haired blinked a few times before noding what he hoped looked like a curt nod. There were other kinds of beer? Maybe Butterbeer wasn't just a wizarding thing after all. Maybe it was just a kind of beer. Maybe Butter was just the flavour. Were the Muggles more advanced than them, having different kinds of beer while wizards only had the one? "Bottle?" Another nod. Gaspar reached under the bar, drawing out a dark brown, translucent bottle with an unfamiliar label. He popped the cap off and slid the bottle across the table to the eager wizard, who paused, took a sip, and frowned.

This was nothing like Butterbeer. It wasn't sweet so much as it was bitter and malty, was cold instead of warm, and had the familiar alcoholic burn of Firewhiskey, except far more muted and benign. He doubted that Muggles would even be able to feel the burn; Hermione had told him that Muggles had far duller senses, even though they had a lower resistance to the effects of alcohol. He realized that Gaspar was looking at him inquisitively, and he hurried his mind up so that he could develop an excuse for the perplexed and surprised look on his face.

"It... er, tastes different than it does back home." He didn't even have to lie; the beer tasted very different than his familiar Butterbeer from back in wizarding Britain. Gaspar nodded, apparently satisfied with his lame excuse, and turned back to his workmate.

The dark-haired man sighed as he took a deep swig from the brown bottle. he wondered what She would think of him now, sitting in this little bar, rpetending to be somebody else. She had never been too keen on being untrue to oneself, and would probably reprimand him, had She been here to see him. In Her eyes he was committing a crime. He had probably done many other things that would displease Her, such as running away from the embodiment of his problems – which, coincidentally, happened to be Her – and not taking advantage of the magic he had been blessed with and simply worrying about everything. Blessed with magic? Ha. More like cursed with it. Life would have been easier if he had ended up as a Squib. But She... She was so carefree and lighthearted and sincere, and here he was: lounging on a bar stool in Muggle Paris idly sipping on a bottle of beer. She would say that if he really wanted to escape from his life properly, then he should have gone to someplace where he could be in touch with nature, like New Zealand or Scotland or that damn paradisaical place inside of Her perfect little mind.

"Forget about her." He broke out of his trance as Gaspar's friendly voice penetrated his thoughts.

"Wh... what?" He asked, stunned. How did Gaspar know about Her? Did he know who the man in front of him was? Did he know what he had done? Did he know what he was capable of? "How do you..?"

"I read people." Gaspar shrugged. The wizard's eyes widened. Was this mere Muggle a Seer? "I'm an extravert studying Psychology at the AUP; I guess you could say that people are my hobby." He shrugged.

"AUP?" He replied, taking another swig from the bottle.

"American University of Paris?" He nodded, again, like he knew what the bilingual man was talking about."Yeah... isn't it obvious that I'm American?" Gaspar questioned. The wizard's eyes widened still further. So _that_ was where Gaspar was from. He nodded again. "Born in France, raised in America, moved back to France." The man with sand-coloured hair chuckled before looking back seriously at the wizard. "But seriously, get over her. You've come to Paris to forget about her, right?" He was given a slow nod and a sullen mumble as a reply. "So forget about her. You're not doing any good by sitting here moping about her."

"I suppose," the dark-haired muttered. Gaspar grinned.

"So finish that bottle and get out of here and hit the ground running, my friend. Europe is a beautiful place! Explore, live your life, forget about her! You could have as many women as you want, if you know where to look." He winked. "You don't need her." The wizard locked eyes with the Muggle, a moment he knew that would never forget, and nodded confidently before draining the rest of the beer and tossing some bills down on the table.

"Thanks, mate. Keep the change." He let loose a genuine smile before whisking himself out of the bar, ready to take on the night.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Here's an update. **  
**Sorry for being mostly incompetent. **  
**To all that are reading this story, I love you.**  
**You deserve a hedgehog wearing a tiny hat because they're just three-thousand-percent adorable. **  
**I'll do my best to update next week.**  
**Thanks to my Kathleen for beta-ing, and to my first reviewer because I love you the most.**

**-e**


End file.
